Observations
by KAirismatic
Summary: Two-part short. CAndy. Chucky and Andy's observations of each other. Rated for mild language. This is a ChuckyxAndy fic, so if you don't like this pairing, please do not read.
1. Andy

_Andy._

I love mornings.

I like waking up early for work. Seven is a good time because in the summer, it's right as the sun is rising, and even if I would sleep later if allowed, something about waking with the sun makes it all feel natural, like maybe I'm supposed to be awake at this time. I guess I am- I read somewhere in a magazine (you know, one of those you pick up in the dentist's while waiting your turn, and you don't actually mean to read it, but the next thing you know, you are) that sleeping and waking earlier helps you feel more energized and prepared for your day.

I also like waking up so early because all the world, for once, seems so peaceful. It's so quiet at this hour, except for maybe some birds chirping here and there, but it's so nice. The air always smells so fresh; the whole area around me feels so clean. I usually shower in the morning, just to feel like I'm a part of that cleanliness, and while I'm waiting for my coffee to finish, I take a moment to sneak out into the yard and just sink my bare feet into the grass to feel morning dew. 

Morning is a great time to relax before work- or anything else really. I've found ever since I've started this routine of enjoying the beginning of a day, I've not let the rest of my day get to me so much. I guess the saying that goes _how you start your day is how you live your day_ was pretty spot on. Whether it's the stress at work, the traffic jam, or the late nights where I hadn't slept before the morning- once I step outside and just take a moment to breathe the new day, none of it matters anymore.

But there's something I really, truly _love _about waking up early in the morning.

It's watching him sleep.

I know, I know, it sounds a little awkward. But you don't understand. In sleep is the only time Chucky is peaceful. The _world _is at peace, I said.

And _he_ is my world.

He's almost always holding onto something- be it the pillow, the sheets (or sometimes, even my arm). It's rare to see him smile, but in sleep, it's almost always there, or at least, ever since we've moved here. There are still rare nights when he'll wake up, sobbing, and neither one of us will have much sleep afterwards, but for the most part, he's always so serene when he's asleep. It's like I get to see this other side of him that no one else does- a secret between just the two of us.

This particular morning, he's holding onto the sheets, a small fist curled around the cotton like it's the most treasured thing in the world. He's almost never frowning and for once, I can just study his face at its most natural state.

I love the freckles that are sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

I love how his nose is always pinker than the rest of his skin. His face is like a child's now; it's ironic, how we've seemed to switch places. Every once in a while, his breath will catch for some reason, and he'll suddenly gasp to make up for lost air. His breaths are fast and short.

Every muscle that twitches on his face while he sleeps makes me wonder what he's dreaming about. Sometimes he mouths words, but he doesn't actually ever speak. This morning it looks almost as if he's saying my name. I let a smile out- _gosh_, how I wish I could just stay here and watch him instead of going to work. But for now, this moment is fine, just watching his back steadily rise and fall with his breathing.

I love the way the sun makes his hair look almost golden.

I only barely run my finger over his lips. It still amazes me, how he was once just plastic, and now it's human flesh that I'm touching. Wasn't it just yesterday my mother came home and gave him to me? It feels like it. I remember that I had had him in my arms constantly. I had loved him so much, and I was a lonely little boy at six, so I can imagine I had probably talked- _too_ much. There are dark memories between us too, but I push them away- why dwell on those when I have so many _good _things to remember?

I love how after all we've been through we're here now, together.

I love how I love him just as much as (if not more than) when we first met.

It's past seven-thirty now. I should have been ready by now, but I've gotten carried away. The clock is blinking the time at me. Smiling, I lean over to kiss him good-bye; he may not feel it, but I like leaving it there, just in case. It's more of a sentimental thing for me, if I'm honest. Even if he never knows it, I will always tell him good-bye before I go in my own way. For me, kissing him good-bye is like letting him know that I'll be gone now, but I'm coming home later. It's like a promise.

This morning though, he wakes from it. Mumbling something that only sounds like muffled _m_s and _n_s (or at least, that's all I can make out), he shifts around under the covers until he opens his eyes, ginger hair tousled in more directions than I can count. He gives this bleary look at me, blue eyes still hazy from sleep and says the most gorgeous thing anyone could hear first thing in the morning:

"What the _fuck_ did you wake me up for, you little shit?"

I bite my lip to hold back a snort as his signature scowl settles in over the once soft features he'd had before. He rubs his eyes and groans, pulling the covers up over his head. "The sun's out too, you son of a…" I just watch the covers shift to mold back around the small shape, barely hearing his string of curses, probably aimed at me. I can see his tiny fingers barely holding onto the edge of the comforter.

I slide my torso underneath the comforter to pull his meager body close to me, pressing lips against his warm forehead. "I'm going," I press softly with kisses against his ear. He doesn't respond; I suspect he's either already asleep or he's just pretending so that I will let him be to do so. I assume the latter. I take only a few more moments to brush my fingers through unruly hair and watch as he slowly sinks into sleep again. I _really _need to be going.

"I love you," I whisper before sliding out. I've already reached the closet and begun to slide on some work slacks when I hear a soft, "Fuck you," and then a small groan. I smile at the familiar words that I hear daily. What else could I expect? He's not one for sentiments and tender sayings. That one phrase that he uses quite often is probably the closest I'll ever get to them- but I'll take it. I know by now, that's just his way of doing things.

But this morning, he's a little different.

"I love you too, you cheesy fucker. Now let me _sleep, _dammit."

It's shocking, and for a second, I'm almost certain I'd imagined it. But this moment has all been too real to not believe, and the sound of me sliding satin over my arms lets me know that I am awake now, and I did hear something I'd thought I'd have never.

I love mornings. There's just something about them that never fails to leave me in some sort of hazy dream, and even with brown hot coffee spills, orange and loud traffic jams, trashy grey co-workers or messy offices, I can't seem to come to grip with any other reality but warm rays of yellow light glowing around cotton comforters and soft, hushedblue eyes.


	2. Chucky

_Chucky_

Three o' clock, nine o' clock. That's where you're supposed to put your hands on the wheel. Or at least, that's what Andy says. Makes shit sense to me- wheels aren't clocks, last I checked. They drive the car, not tell the time. But that's where Andy's hands are, and for some reason, that's where I'm choosing to look right now. Are his hands even in this three-o-nine-o position? Hell if I know. I never actually got _my _license. I never even bought a car.

Doesn't mean I never drove one. Were my hands ever in that position? I doubt it.

"Aunt Maggie called today," he says, turning the car slightly. His eyes are darting between the rearview and side mirrors. Now it's his eyes, huh? They say eyes are like, _the windows to souls_, or some shit like that. Wonder what his eyes are supposed to say about _his_ soul? They're brown- most people think that's a boring color. But, for me, it's- it's different. They aren't just _brown-_brown, you get what I mean? They change. They glow sometimes, almost like they're alive. Warm and alive.

"That's nice," I answer. I almost called that lady Aunt Maggie once, thanks to Andy. I never thought anyone would rub off on me, but recently, I've started to find that I'm doing things that Andy would do. I wonder if he does anything like me? His hands are still right where they were before on the wheel. _Careful_. He's always so careful. "What'd the bitch want?"

He makes a face at me. I used to just curse for the hell of it, because I could, but lately it's just so I can catch Andy in different expressions. He's always so calm- smiling or with a light grin on his face. To me, it's nice seeing him cross his eyes or stick his tongue out once in a while. I like making him playful. It's not as if I don't want him to be happy- I want him fucking happy. He deserves it, the little bastard. And I like his eyes when he's happy, goddammit, I really _love _his eyes.

_ I fucking love your eyes._ Do you hear me?

He said something. "What?" I ask. He sighs and huffs, lips pouting. If he wasn't driving, I would just kiss them, right now.

_Fuck you for looking cute. That's what you get for being a distraction. Now I didn't hear what you said, you little shit. _

"Were you even listening to me?" he says, to which I respond with, "No- when do I ever listen?" like the classy bitch that I am.

"I _said_, Aunt Maggie's pregnant." He turns up the music a bit. I don't know the name of this song, but it makes me think of those sunshine springtime songs. Gay. But you know, I've come to like them. They make me think of Andy. Andy makes me think of sunshine, in his own way. Probably because he's always so bright and full of energy.

Like when he woke me up yesterday morning, all kissing and cuddling into my sleep time.

Fucking _dick_.

"That's cool, I _guess_," I tell him blandly, and he lets go of the wheel with one of his hands to punch me in the shoulder, but only gently, _God forbid _he hurt me. Always so careful, and sometimes it drives me crazy. But- I won't admit it to him, you will _never _catch me say this out loud- but I don't mind it, the way he seems to watch out for me, to make sure that I'm okay. It's more than anyone's ever done for me. So maybe he goes a little _too _far, like making sure I wear jackets during winter (like I'm two, _geezus_, Andy, I'm not a child. I'm a fucking adult), but it's the thought that counts, right?

Hands on the wheel, he's careful with driving too. Maybe he's just careful with everything?

I like his hands, too. Watching them carefully hold onto the wheel. There's strength in those hands. I saw him build our house with them. He does push- ups with them- one time, I sat on him just to be a dick and see if he could still lift himself with my fat-ass. He could- of course, of _course_, I don't really weigh that much, now do I? I don't know what I had expected.

He can fix or break with those hands.

That's why it amazes me how _gentle_ he can be with them. I remember the first time he hugged me, after he came home when we all thought he was dead. I expected this crushing hug. It felt like hugging a cloud more than anything, and I thought at first it was because he had been traveling for so long and was just tired. But even now, when he touches me, it's like he's scared I'll break.

Even when I was a doll, Andy, I was made of plastic, not fucking _glass. _I don't break that easy, you know.

"What are you looking at?" _Shit_. He's caught me staring, eyebrows raised curiously, though his eyes are still on the road. The sun is shining in them right now- liquid gold. Gold piss. That's the color of your eyes.

_Warm_- that's the color of your eyes.

"Not much, dipshit," I say, and he laughs, dimples on his face, dragging my attention to his cheek. His scar- I see it all the time. He's lucky that's all he came out with (besides the always there bruises, of course). Most people would have been battered, with huge rips on their back and chest and legs and arms and fucking _everywhere_.

You know what? Screw that. Most people would have been _dead_.

He laughed at my anger. That shows just how long the kid's been with me. He fucking _knows_. He just knows I don't mean it. Anyone around us always asks about it, why he hangs out with such a sour cunt like me. And do you know what he does? He just smiles and shakes his head, and says, "You just don't understand." One time he made a joke about it to me, saying he had a special translator downloaded for it. "Whatever you say, I just type it in, and then it tells me," he had said, and I had just shoved him away, shouting a nice "Fuck you."

_Fuck you _in my language means a great many things, he tells me. It's very versatile, apparently.

I like that though- now I don't have to get all itchy and uncomfortable with the _I love you you're so special _blah-blah. _That's_ how I say I love you. Dipshit. Screw you for being able to read into me like I'm _Oliver Twist_.

(Also known as _please don't stop reading._)

I just sit back and face the windshield. This way, I can still just _look _at him from the corner of my eyes and not have him know. He already knows anyways, that I love him. I don't have to say it. He knows that I like it when he hugs me and treats me like I'm fragile, even though I gripe at him about it all the time. Because he just _knows_. Because he was careful, and he figured it out.

He and I understand that it's not saying I'm weak when he handles me gently. It's just showing that he actually cares- like I actually _matter _to him. He doesn't have to explain it to me, I don't have to tell him that it's what I want- we just sort of know. Which works for me, I'd rather not have an awkward bonding-time moment where we're both snot-nosed and clinging like in those Hallmark movies he watches with his mom sometimes. (Honestly, what _is _it with women and that channel?) Fuck you, Andy; I love _you_.

I'm not a clock, Andy, and I sure as hell ain't a wheel.

But if you love me as carefully as you drive and tell time, I hope you always keep your hands steady like this, _three o clock, nine o clock_.


End file.
